Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri [78]
Sometimes Sang would take notes during these conversations, on the message pad kept next to the phone. She’d write down the man’s name, or “Carnegie Mellon,” or “likes mystery novels” before her pen drifted into scribbles and stars and tick-tack-toe games. To be polite, she asked a few questions, too, about whether the man enjoyed his work as an economist, or a dentist, or a metallurgical engineer. Her excuse to these men, her rebuttal to their offers to wine and dine her, was always the same white lie: she was busy at the moment with classes, its being Harvard and all. Sometimes, if Paul happened to be sitting at the table, she would write him a note in the middle of the conversation: “He sounds like he’s twelve” or “Total dweeb” or “This guy threw up once in my parents’ swimming pool,” waving the pad for Paul’s benefit as she cradled the phone to her ear.
It was only after Sang hung up that she complained. How dare these men call? she’d say. How dare they hunt her down? It was a violation of her privacy, an insult to her adulthood. It was pathetic. If only Paul and Heather could hear them, going on about themselves. At this point, Heather would sometimes say, “God, Sang, I can’t believe you’re complaining. Dozens of men, successful men, possibly even handsome, want to marry you, sight unseen. And you expect us to feel sorry for you?” Heather, a law student at Boston College, had been bitterly single for five years. She told Sang the proposals were romantic, but Sang shook her head. “It’s not love.” In Sang’s opinion it was practically an arranged marriage. These men weren’t really interested in her. They were interested in a mythical creature created by an intricate chain of gossip, a web of wishful Indian-community thinking in which she was an aging, overlooked poster child for years of bharat natyam classes, perfect SATs. Had they any idea who she actually was and how she made a living, in spite of her test scores, which was by running a cash register and arranging paperback books in pyramid configurations, they would want nothing to do with her? “And besides,” she always reminded Paul and Heather, “I have a boyfriend.”
“You’re like Penelope,” Paul ventured one evening. He had lately been rereading Lattimore’s Homer, in preparation for his orals in English literature the following spring.
“Penelope?” She was standing at the microwave, heating some rice. Paul watched as she removed the plate and mixed the steaming rice with a spoonful of the dark red-hot lime pickle that lived next to his peanut butter in the door of the refrigerator.
“From the Odyssey?” Paul said gently, a question to match her question. He was tall without being lank, with solid fingers and calves, and fine straw-colored hair. The most noticeable aspect of his appearance was a pair of expensive designer glasses, their maroon frames perfectly round, which an attractive salesgirl in a frame shop on Beacon Street had talked him into buying. Paul had not liked the glasses, even as he was being fitted for them, and had not grown to like them since.
“Right, the Odyssey,” Sang said, sitting down at the table. “Penelope. Only I can’t knit.”
“Weave,” he said, correcting her. “It was a shroud Penelope kept weaving and unweaving, to ward off her suitors.”
Sang lifted a forkful of the rice to her lips, blowing on it so that it would cool. “Then, who’s the woman who knits?” she asked. She looked at Paul. “You would know.”
Paul paused, eager to impress her, but his mind had drawn a blank. He knew it was someone in Dickens, had the paperbacks up in his room. “Be right back,” he said. Then he stopped, relieved. “A Tale of Two Cities,” he told her. “Madame